


Red

by Anarfea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dark, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/F, Female Ejaculation, Fingerfucking, Missing Scene, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28780122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: Irene knows she’s in too deep when Moriarty sends one of AGRA’s assassins to kill her. Rosamund tells her there might be a way to stay alive--if she’s willing to get her hands dirty.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Mary Morstan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vulgarweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/gifts).



> This fic was written for Fandom Trumps Hate 2020 for the lovely Vulgarweed, who requested Irene/Mary. But, I should note here that this fic actually takes place before she's Mary, so, throughout the fic I refer to her as Rosamund. Hope that doesn't confuse anyone!

“Jim Moriarty wants you dead.”

Irene freezes. The voice is female. American. The speaker steps out from behind a pillar in the underground car park. She’s shorter than Irene stands in heels, but compact, clad in black motorcycle leathers. Her hair is blonde, short enough to curl beneath her ears. Irene recognizes her face from photographs.

She struggles to hold her composure. “He must, if he’s sent AGRA.”

Rosamund smiles. “There is no more AGRA. I’m freelance, now.”

Irene isn’t sure this changes anything. She still knows she’s in the presence of one of the most dangerous women in the world. Ex-CIA turned professional death squad, now freelance contract killer.

“Why?” She’s stalling for time. Rosamund hasn’t killed her yet, which means there’s still time to bargain. “I’ve done everything he’s asked.”

Rosamund smirks. “I quote. ‘The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. Then give him a puzzle… and watch him dance.’”

Her mind races. This is about Sherlock. Jim wants to kill her to provoke a response from Sherlock. “Jim said that?”

“No. That’s Mycroft Holmes. Something he mentioned to Jim during their chats. Anyway, it’s time for our boy to feel the pain of loss, darling.”

“Jim thinks my death will put Sherlock in the correct frame of mind.”

“Quite.”

“And what if I’m… disinclined to die?”

“Jim thought you might be. There is another way, but it requires… group participation. Are you willing to get your hands dirty?”

She hesitates only an instant. “Yes.”

Rosamund smiles. “Good girl.”

It grates, and yet, there’s her opening: let Rosamund think she’s biddable.

“Come with me, then.”

* * *

Irene selects her armour carefully the next morning. Jeans, a silk camisole, a leather jacket and knee-high flat boots, subtly mirroring Rosamund’s look from the day before. She leaves several sets of un-tried-on clothes draped over her chair, to make it look like she was more indecisive than she was. With any luck, this evening she’ll be bringing Rosamund back here.

Kate does her makeup. Irene opts for an innocent look. Pale pink lip, mascara, blush. Her hair, Kate puts half-up. She wants to look done-up, but not fierce. Vulnerable.

* * *

She meets Rosamund at the studio early. There’s a small crowd of women standing in the hallway. Irene’s stomach rolls as she sizes them up. They’re all petite, bird-boned, small chests, pale skin. Each of them holds a glossy headshot, but Irene isn’t looking at those.

Jim is there, wearing jeans and a hooded jumper. He’s chewing gum. He catches her eye, winks at her. She hates it.

“Okay, ladies!” he says. “Please form an orderly queue. Auditions start at 8.”

They line up against the wall. A reverse firing squad. She swallows.

Rosamund loops her arm through Irene’s and guides them inside. Jim follows them and takes a seat at a table, cracks the seal on a bottle of water. Rosamund sits beside him and hands Irene a binder. It’s full of the headshots of the girls outside. Irene sits slowly and opens the folio. Her palms are sweating.

The first girl comes in. She’s too tall.

“Hello. I’m--”

“Next,” says Jim. “Sorry, hon. You’re not what we’re looking for.”

The parade goes on for more than an hour. The better ones, with the right measurements, stay longer. They run lines with Jim. The scene is from a modern interpretation of _Little Red Riding Hood_. They’re casting the role of Red. Jim is the Wolf, of course.

“My, what big ears you have,” says the latest girl. Irene sips her water. This one is the right build, right skin tone. Her hair is too short, and the wrong color, but that’s easily changed.

“All the better to hear you with, my dear.”

“Can I see your navel?” blurts Irene.

The girl blinks in surprise. “Um. Sure.” She lifts up her shirt. Her navel is pierced.

“Damn,” Rosamund curses under her breath.

“I can take it out?” asks the girl.

Irene shakes her head. There would still be a scar.

“Next!” calls Jim.

Irene knows it as soon as she sees her. From the neck down, it’s what she sees when she looks in the mirror, or would if she were wearing khakis and a white button-down.

The girl and Jim run through the wolf scene. Irene’s mouth is dry. She takes another sip of water. The girl’s voice is high-pitched, nothing like hers. It doesn’t matter.

“Can you do a monologue, love?” asks Jim.

“Sure.” She stills. Her eyes--brown, but that doesn’t matter--glaze over. She begins to dance, slowly.

“By Gis and by Saint Charity,

Alack, and fie, for shame!

Young men will do ’t, if they come to ’t.

By Cock, they are to blame.

Quoth she, ‘Before you tumbled me,

You promised me to wed.’

He answers,’So would I ha' done, by yonder sun,

An thou hadst not come to my bed.’”

Irene stands slowly. She walks over to the girl, who doesn’t break character, continues her mad Ophelia dance. Irene reaches out for her, touches her face. The girl tilts her head into her palm.

“She’s perfect.”

She breaks. “Really?” Her voice is breathy. “I think so. Just one thing, darling.”

“What?”

“There’s a nude scene. Are you comfortable with that?”

“Sure.” The girl nods.

“Please take off your top, then.”

The girl unbuttons her shirt and takes it off. She’s wearing a bra, which she undoes behind her back and shimmies out of.

Irene looks her over. 32B. Pert, pink nipples. Perfect.

* * *

“You did well,” says Rosamund. They’re walking down the street outside the studio. She places her hand at the small of Irene’s back.

Irene knows all these tricks. Being told she’s a good girl, that she’s done well, the reassuring touches. She’s used to being the one administering them. Even knowing this, the touch loosens some of the knots in her stomach.

“What happens now?” She doesn’t want to know, but she shouldn’t shirk the truth.

“I’ll kill her. Christmas night. A clean, painless death.” There’s the hand on Irene’s back again. “I promise. Then I’ll bash her face in post-mortem.”

Irene’s throat clenches. She nods.

Rosamund’s tone is matter-of-fact. “She’s no one. A struggling actress. Moved to London from Leeds. No boyfriend. Few friends. Her parents will report her missing eventually, but her case will go cold, like so many others.”

And Jim will regard that as a favour. Irene knows about traded favours. He owns her, now. She’s an accessory to murder, now. But at least she’s not dead. It could easily be her with the clean painless death. Or a painful and messy one. No need to bash her face in after.

“Tip Sherlock off. Give him a reason to suspect your imminent demise.”

Irene pulls her phone out of her pocket. She texts with one hand:

**I’m thinking of sending you a Christmas present.**

Rosamund glances down at the phone. “What will you send?”

Irene turns the phone over in her hand. “This.”

* * *

She selects foil paper in a shade of red to match her lipstick, wraps the camera phone, and ties it with cord reminiscent of bondage rope. It’s a risky move, giving up her protection, but Irene is nothing if not an expert in weaponizing vulnerability. The break-in is a cinch--she climbs in through the bedroom window, the same as when she returned his coat. She climbs over the sill, walks through the bedroom and into the sitting room, making straight for the fireplace. Sherlock has stabbed his post through with a letter opener and affixed it to the mantelpiece. And he likes to pretend he’s not emotional. She smiles to herself as she sets the present on the mantel next to the post. Then she goes out the way she came.

Rosamund is waiting for her under the windowsill. “Oh, dear. Look at your face. You actually like him.”

“I’m just enjoying the game.”

Rosamund shakes her head. “And Jim told me you were a lesbian.”

“And?” She feels oddly defensive. Yes, she prefers women. Yes, usually her relationships with men have been strictly professional. But she’s hardly going to let herself be pigeonholed by some label.

“Nothing, I just…. Men are all the same. Stupid, useless, easily manipulated. I thought you understood that.”

Irene’s smile tightens. She largely does agree with Rosamund. But Sherlock isn’t an ordinary man. He’s different. Fascinating.

“Anyway,” Rosamund continues, “you won’t ever catch me mooning after some man, I’ll tell you that. And Sherlock looks like a praying mantis.”

Irene forces a laugh that doesn’t sound forced. “He does rather look like an insect.” She smiles coyly and pivots. “So, if men are all stupid and useless, what about women?”

Rosamund smiles. “Women are beautiful. Or at least, you’re beautiful.”

Irene smiles back. “You’re rather lovely yourself.”

“You think so?” Rosamund steps closer.

“I know so.” Irene tilts her head, parts her lips. And then Rosamund’s lips are pressing against hers, and they’re warm, and soft, and her tongue is pressing into Irene’s mouth, and they really should stop snogging right beneath Sherlock’s windowsill.

She breaks the kiss. “Let’s continue this somewhere more comfortable.”

* * *

They hail a cab and take it to Irene’s house in Belgravia. Kate greets them and takes their coats. Her green eyes flick over Rosamund. She’s curious.

“Kate, darling. Be a dear and fetch us some champagne.”

Kate returns with an ice bucket and a bottle and two glasses. She uncorks the bottle and pours, sets them on a tray beside the sofa, and then makes herself scarce.

Irene raises her glass. “To new alliances.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

The two of them clink glasses. Irene sips her champagne. Bubbles pop in her mouth.

Rosamund takes a sip and then sets her glass down on the coffee table. “So, darling, I’d be more than happy to fuck you here on the couch, but I suspect you’ve got a playroom that’s better appointed. How about we relocate?”

“The playroom is for business. This,” says Irene, “is about pleasure.” Let Rosamund think she’s different. Special.

Rosamund looks pleased. “I’m flattered. Do you have a bedroom, then?”

Irene takes another sip of champagne. “I do.” She stands up, champagne in hand, and leads Rosamund to her bedroom. Her bed is made up with a white silk duvet and black and white silk pillows that complement the demon-patterned wallpaper.

Irene turns the duvet down and perches atop the bed. She sets her champagne on the nightstand and crooks a finger at Rosamund, who sits beside her.

“You’re so beautiful,” says Rosamund, “a proper English rose.”

Irene laughs. “I’m not a proper anything.”

“I don’t know. You seem so prim to me. I just want to mess you up.”

“Do you, now?”

“Oh, yes.” Rosamund takes Irene’s head in her hands. “Let’s get these pins out of your hair.”

Irene obliges. She’s used to Kate taking her hair down. But Kate is slow and meticulous. Rosamund makes quick work of it, plucking out the pins and throwing them into a pile on the nightstand. Then she ruffles Irene’s hair with her fingers, shaking her hair into loose waves.

“That’s better,” she says, admiring her handiwork.

“Is it?” Irene is amused.

“Much.” Rosamund kisses her again. She tastes like champagne. Their kiss deepens, and Rosamund grasps the hair at Irene’s nape and tugs, guides her downward until her head is on the pillows. She lies atop Irene and begins kissing down Irene’s neck.

Irene finds herself arching her neck back as Rosamund’s tongue finds a sensitive place where her ear meets her jaw. Rosamund bites--nips, really--but Irene is keenly aware of the presence of her teeth on her neck. Irene has Rosamund right where she wants her, but she cannot allow herself to forget that Rosamund is dangerous, that she could easily pin Irene down and strangle her here in bed.

Almost as if she can read her mind, Rosamund pulls back with a smirk on her face. “Darling, if I were going to kill you, I’d have done it already.”

Irene nods. She knows this. Knows that Rosamund has no reason to harm her, and yet… the teeth move over her larynx and she half-expects, half-wants, a bite there, but all Rosamund does is kiss. She mouths the neckline of Irene’s camisole. “Gotta get you out of this,” she murmurs, the hand that’s not in Irene’s hair sliding down the front of her, skimming her breast, ribs, thigh and slipping up under the camisoles hem.

Rosamund deftly unfastens the button of Irene’s jeans and pulls the zip down, pulling them down over her hips. Her fingers slip down the front of Irene’s open flies and tease underneath her knickers. Irene has started to soak through them. Her breath is coming out in little pants.

Rosamund yanks her jeans and knickers down around her knees. Irene parts her legs as wide as the constricting fabric will allow. Rosamund rewards her, burying her face in Irene’s folds, licking and sucking. She holds Irene’s hips down to keep her from bucking as she laps. Irene looks down, sees blazing blue eyes locked on hers, and demures, dropping her own gaze and looking at Rosamund through lowered lashes.

Rosamund sucks Irene’s clit ruthlessly, until her pleasure borders on pain. It’s too intense for her to come, but her legs are trembling and her insides have gone to jelly.

“Turn over,” says Rosamund. “And get these off.” She tugs at the waistband of her jeans.

Irene obliges. She’s fuck-drunk, but manages to struggle up to her knees and get her jeans and boots off.

Rosamund stands up next to the bed and strips out of her own clothes, tossing them onto the floor next to Irene’s. She pauses and glances down at Irene, who’s peeling off her stockings. Her gaze is predatory.

“God, I want to fuck you. Please tell me you have a strap-on somewhere in here.”

Irene has strap-ons, plural, but she’s not used to being on the receiving end of them. “Under the bed.”

Rosamund bends down and slides out a hardwood toy box and opens it to see Irene’s collection of dildos, vibrators, and yes, harnesses. She whistles. “Well this is nice,” she says, picking up a harness of plain black leather. “You can pick your dick.”

Irene selects a soft silicone dildo with a bulbous head. Rosamund looks at it appraisingly. “You like fat cocks?” “Yes.” She manages a flat expression.

“Good to know.” Rosamund secures the dildo in the harness and the harness to herself. “All fours.”

Irene obliges.

Rosamund positions herself behind Irene and grabs her hips, fucks into her, pulls her hair and twists, tugging her back. Irene gasps, lets herself be ridden. It’s not a position that does much for her physically, but she can imagine how she looks in Rosamund’s eyes on her hands and knees, and knows it’s doing a lot for _her_ to fuck Irene from behind.

“God, you’re beautiful,” says Rosamund, who stops, and then pulls out and lies on her back. “Work for it,” she says, “ride me.”

Irene straddles her and slides down on the dildo. This position is better for her; she can grind against the leather harness. Rosamund grabs her hands and pins them behind her back, makes her struggle. She had expected to need to fake this, but it’s better than she expected. She writhes and pants, pinned in place, sweet spot pressed snug against Rosamund’s harness. Her toes point, her legs tighten. She comes hard, a scream tearing loose from the back of her throat.

“Oh fuck, yes,” says Rosamund.

Irene slumps against Rosamund’s chest, her own heaving. Rosamund kisses the top of her head.

“What can I do for you?” Irene asks, voice husky.

“I want to see you do what it is you do.”

Irene frowns. “I said this is for pleasure.”

“I know. But Jim says you know what everybody likes. I want you to figure it out. What I like.”

Irene slowly rises up and looks at Rosamund. Her face is pink. She liked fucking Irene. Likes being in charge, or thinking she is. She likes to feel powerful. Irene slides down her body, kissing as she goes, and puts her mouth on the head of the strap.

Rosamund’s eyes light up.

Irene slides two fingers inside her, careful of her nails, pressing firmly against her anterior walls. Then she slides her head down.

Rosamund grasps her by the hair again and controls the depth and speed at which she sucks. Irene finger-fucks her in the same rhythm. She puts one hand around the bottom of the dildo and, instead of jacking it like a real cock, makes a stirring motion, pushing the silicone base into Rosamund’s clit. Rosamund bucks into her mouth, and the cock pushes against the back of her throat. Irene breathes through her nose and swallows. She doesn’t like to deepthroat, but she certainly knows how.

“Oh, God,” gasps Rosamund. “Is this what you do for them?”

Irene doesn’t answer. She continues to massage the spongy spot inside Rosamund with her fingers while grinding the dildo into her clit.

“Fuck,” Rosamund hisses. “Fuck, you’re perfect, fuck.”

Rosamund’s legs are trembling. She opens them wider, and Irene curls her fingers up, applying steady pressure.

“Oh, God, I’m close, I think I might--”

Her muscles contract around Irene’s fingers, hips forcing the dildo all the way to the base, and she squirts into Irene’s hand. Irene gags, then swallows again, holding the dildo in her throat and her fingers inside Rosamund, still contorting and twisting. The hands in her hair relax. Slowly, she pulls up off the dildo. Slower still, she takes her fingers out. There’s a wet spot beneath Rosamund that she rolls away from. Irene climbs up the length of Rosamund’s body and presses tight against her.

Rosamund strokes her hair. Irene smiles, pretends to bask in the afterglow. In the end, Rosamund was not so frightening as she had feared. She responded to Irene just like all the others. It was almost too easy.

“Do you have to go now?” Irene asks.

“Yes.” Rosamund kisses the top of her head. “I need to finish this tonight.”

“Can I come with you?” She looks into Rosamund’s eyes.

Rosamund looks back. “I thought you’d like to avoid the ugliness.”

Irene smiles. “I want to see you do what it is _you_ do.”

Rosamund chuckles. “Fine. But you have to promise you won’t be squeamish.”

“I promise.”

* * *

Irene sends the text from the burner she’s been using since she gave Sherlock her camera phone:

**Congratulations on getting cast as Red. I’d like to take you out for a celebratory drink. That is, if you don’t have other plans. I know it’s Christmas.**

There’s a swift reply:

**No plans actually. Drinks sound great.**

* * *

Irene has felt like a predator before, seducing her prey. This is the same, only much more so. The girl is oblivious, sipping from the sugared rim of her mixed drink. “Oh my God. I’m just so excited. I know it’s a small picture, but this will be my first time acting in a lead role since I was Mary in my primary school’s Christmas panto.”

“I always wanted to be Mary,” says Rosamund. “But I always ended up an angel.”

“No doubt because of your sweet nature,” smirks Irene.

Rosamund grins.

There’s a camaraderie between them. She’s not felt this before, never hunted in a pack. There’s a light in Rosamund’s eyes which she knows is reflected in her own.

“Oh, God, sorry; I’ve had too much to drink. Excuse me a bit,” says the girl. She stands up and heads towards the loo.

Rosamund watches her leave, waits until she’s out of sight, and then discreetly pulls an eyedropper out of her purse and squirts a few droplets into the girl’s glass.

Irene arches an eyebrow.

“GHB.”

She sobers. She’s drugged people before, of course. But it feels real, now, in a way it didn’t before.

“You don’t need to stay,” says Rosamund.

“I want to.” She squeezes Rosamund’s thigh under the table. “I don’t want you to do this for me.”

Rosamund shrugs. “I’m doing this for Jim.”

A tendril of worry coils in Irene’s belly. She had hoped that Rosamund thought of this as a favor she was doing for Irene. Protecting her, caring for her.

Rosamund seems to sense this. “It’s a job. Like any other. But I like you.” She slides a hand on top of Irene’s. “I’m glad it’s not you.”

Irene nods, a bit stiffly. “But you would. If he asked you to.”

Rosamund winces. “Jim Moriarty doesn’t ask for things.”

Irene knows. She wonders at the hold Jim has on Rosamund, who seems so fiercely independent. But everyone has their pressure point.

The girl comes back from the loo. “Sorry,” she says.

“No worries,” says Rosamund.

“To our Red!” says Irene. She raises her glass and drinks.

The girl does, too. She doesn’t seem to notice anything is amiss.

They drink and chat about the fake picture, which Jim is supposedly both starring in and directing. Rosamund is the producer. Irene, the casting director. They talk about how wonderfully fun everything is going to be until the girl’s eyes start to glaze over.

“I think you’ve had a bit too much, love,” says Irene. “Let’s get out of here.”

The girl nods, sways in her chair.

Rosamund stands up and helps her to her feet. Irene stands beside her and puts an arm around the girl. Rosamund does the same, and they walk out, with her between them. Jim is driving the black cab that waits for them outside.

* * *

The three of them sit in the back, the girl in the middle. She slumps, resting her head on Irene’s shoulder. Irene’s heart pounds.

Rosamund reaches across the girl’s lap and offers her hand. Irene takes it. Her palms are clammy.

They drive to a condemned building that Jim owns. The tyres crunch on the gravel as they come to a stop. Rosamund squeezes Irene’s hand, then lets go.

“Come on, babydoll,” she says to the girl, who has drooled on Irene’s shoulder. She scoops her up and pulls her out of the car and into a fireman’s carry. She follows Jim into the building.

Irene takes a moment to compose herself before opening the door. She climbs out, slams the door, and walks up the walkway after Rosamund.

* * *

Inside, a generator hums. There’s a lamp plugged into it that illuminates a metal chair. A portable oxygen bottle is on the floor next to the chair, a plastic non-rebreather mask on top.

Irene stares at it. “That’s not oxygen, is it.”

“Nitrogen,” says Rosamund. “Quick and painless, as promised.”

“You’re no fun, Rosamund,” says Jim.

Rosamund doesn’t answer, focusing on depositing the girl--Maggie, her name was Maggie Harvey, Irene makes herself remember--onto the chair. She slides halfway off. Rosamund sighs and pulls her up again. She slumps.

“Wait--” says Irene.

Rosamund turns and looks at her.

“This is easily remedied.” Irene glances at Jim. “Give me your belt.”

He smirks and unfastens the buckle. There’s a whooshing sound as leather glides over wool. Then he hands it to her.

Irene takes the girl by her shoulders and pushes them back against the chair, arms at her sides. She grabs the belt and wraps it around the girl’s--Maggie’s--chest and behind the back of the chair. She buckles it over her bust. She slumps again, but the belt holds.

“Thank you,” says Rosamund.

Irene shrugs.

Rosamund takes the mask from the top of the tank and holds it towards Irene. “You’re not the only one who can make deductions about what people want.”

Irene stares at her.

“You want to know what it is that I do. You want to know how it feels. To kill someone.”

Irene hesitates only an instant. “Yes. I do.”

“Well, well, well,” chuckles Jim.

Irene and Rosamund ignore him. Rosamund hands her the mask. There’s a reservoir bag attached to it. Irene has done medical scenes before. She knows what to do.

She walks over to the nitrogen tank. The regulator has already been installed. She takes the key, and turns it counterclockwise. She attaches the oxygen tubing to the regulator and starts the flow. She covers the holes in the mask with her fingers and lets the bag fill. Maggie makes a soft moaning sound. Irene glances at her. Her dark hair has fallen into her eyes.

The bag is full. Irene pulls the strap back and approaches Maggie. She lifts the mask over her head and attaches it to her face, covering her mouth and nose. She then lifts her head and holds it in place while she pulls the straps tight.

Rosamund rolls up her sleeve and glances at her wrist watch.

“How long?” she asks.

“About a minute until she’s unconscious,” says Rosamund. “Brain death usually occurs after seven minutes of hypoxia.”

Irene nods. Her heart is racing. She holds Maggie’s head to keep it from lolling. She’s breathing steadily, slowly emptying her lungs of oxygen. Irene watches her face. Rosamund glances up from her watch, watching Irene watching Maggie.

Maggie begins to convulse, thrashing against the belt. Irene straddles her, sitting in the chair and holding her down, cradling her head. Beneath the mask, her lips have begun to turn blue. Irene feels a strange, perverse desire to kiss them. She doesn’t.

Instead she holds Maggie’s head with one hand and checks her pulse with the other. It’s faint. Maggie convulses harder, legs shifting under Irene’s. She thinks of Rosamund writhing under her touch. She holds Maggie’s head, watching her eyes, which are closed. Pity. It would have been interesting to see the light go out of them. Instead, she watches Maggie’s chest rising and falling beneath the belt. Her breathing gets slower and slower, until it doesn’t come at all.

“That’s enough,” says Rosamund.

Irene glances over at her. Her demeanor is cool. Professional. It didn’t feel like seven minutes. It doesn’t feel like any time has passed at all. But she takes off the mask. Maggie’s lips are purple. Irene lets her head fall back.

“What now?” she asks Rosamund.

Rosamund takes a pair of brass knuckles out of her pocket.

Irene nods. She stands up and takes a few steps back.

Rosamund grabs Maggie by the hair to hold her in place and proceeds to punch her repeatedly in the face. Jim looks on, impassive. Irene tries very hard not to flinch at the sound of bone crunching beneath metal as Rosamund strikes again, and again. Blood spatters the floor.

This could be her blood, she thinks, staring at the stain. Rosamund would do this to her, if Jim told her to. She would be sad about it, because she likes Irene, but she’d kill her, all the same. It’s good to know where they stand.

At last, Rosamund steps away. Maggie’s head falls back. Her face is unrecognizable. Her body is Irene’s. She’s dead, now. Irene Adler is dead now. She killed Maggie Harvey tonight, so that Irene Adler would die, so that Irene Adler would live.

Rosamund pulls a handkerchief out of her pocket and wipes blood from the brass knuckles. Then she puts them away.

She extends her hand to Irene. “Let’s get out of here.” She turns to Jim. “I trust you can take it from here?”

He nods, pulls his phone from his pocket, dials. “Jim Moriarty here. Need a cleanup on aisle eight.”

Irene takes Rosamund’s hand. Rosamund squeezes. Irene appreciates the reassurance, but she doesn’t need it, not anymore.

They walk out of the building, hand in hand.

* * *

“So. How did it feel?” asks Rosamund.

She thinks about it. It was thrilling. Terrifying. Ultimately underwhelming. Maggie’s eyes were closed.

“It was easier than I expected.”

Rosamund nods.

Irene takes out her burner phone and texts Sherlock:

 **Mantelpiece**.

“You texting him?” asks Rosamund. There’s an edge of jealousy in her voice which pleases Irene.

“Yes. I’m letting him know where he can find the phone. And then he’ll call Mycroft, and Mycroft will look for my dead body.”

Mycroft Holmes. The Ice Man. Unassailable. Except via his baby brother Sherlock.

And Sherlock, she understands. _Give him a puzzle and watch him dance._ How well his brother knows him. But not as well as she does. Sherlock is brilliant, bored, and very, very lonely. Mycroft doesn’t understand that, which will be his downfall. Sherlock is desperate for validation and as fascinated with her as she is with him.

“What’s the puzzle?” she asks.

Rosamund shrugs. “Above my pay grade. Something about James Bond?”

 _Bond Air_. Irene has been seeing an MOD man who gloated about how he was working on a top secret mission. Her mind is whirring. Jim thinks he owns her now. She killed for him, and now she’s his, like Rosamund. But he’s playing with Sherlock. And Sherlock is different. Sherlock is as brilliant as Jim, without being mad as a hatter. Sherlock might just beat him. And then, Irene might be free.

She loops her arm through Rosamund’s as they walk. The night air is cool on their faces.

“What are you thinking about?” asks Rosamund.

“Freedom.”

Rosamund misses a step. “That’s dangerous.”

“ _I’m_ dangerous. So are you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Remember what you said about men? About how they’re useless and stupid and easily manipulated?”

“Yes....”

“Jim is a man.”

“Jim is a spider.”

“Don’t let him fool you. He’s a man. And like all men, he thinks with his cock, and his cock wants Sherlock. And Sherlock,” Irene smiles, “wants me. This is a game I can win. A game _we_ can win, if you help me.” “Help you how?” Rosamund’s tone is wary.

“There’s an MOD man I know,” says Irene. “Well, I know what he likes….”


End file.
